My mother-in-law burst into my penthouse waving a stack of overdue notices and screamed, “Liam, your wife hasn’t paid the property management company in six months!

For one full second, no one moved.

Liam’s hand was still half-raised, his fingers curled from where they had been clenched around my blouse. Eleanor’s face froze in that strange expression people make when their lies are suddenly dragged into daylight before they have time to dress them up.

Then Liam looked at the ceiling.

The tiny red light blinked once.

Twice.

He stepped back as if the camera were a loaded weapon.

“What did you just say?” he whispered.

I didn’t answer him. Instead, I reached into my briefcase again, took out my phone, and tapped the speaker button.